


No Sweeter Innocence

by Doctor_Kya



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Dance, Genderbending, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, genderbent michael
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 10:09:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3323594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_Kya/pseuds/Doctor_Kya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is a junior soloist working on his first solo performance with the dance company. Dean Winchester is a senior soloist with years of experience and wisdom to share. One look tells him there is more potential in Castiel than the classical world can take.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Castiel adjusted his starting position, set his arms and found his spot on the wall. A beat of hesitation, a breath out, a breath in, tighten muscles and-

_One two fouette, one two fouette, one two three four five six seven…_

With a shout of frustration, Cas flung his arms out wide to the empty studio, stamping his foot and glaring at the floor. Why couldn’t he pull this off? It wasn’t even the hardest thing he’d had to do in his career. Last year he’d danced a three-hour show on an injured knee and kept a smile on his face the whole time, never missing a beat or breaking time with the rest of the chorus. A string of pirouettes should be easy compared to that, but he just couldn’t get round the eighth time.

With a huff, Cas took up fourth position again.

“You look like you’re having some trouble there.”

Cas didn’t turn around or break his position, just turned his head to look in the long mirror on the left wall. Dean Winchester was walking down the side of the studio towards him, his hands in the pockets of his jeans and a swagger in his step. Great. The last thing Cas needed was one of the first soloists coming to gloat and make fun of him.

“I’m fine,” he said, through gritted teeth.

“No, you’re not. You’re leaning forward.” Dean toed off his shoes and crossed to the middle of the studio. He placed his hand between Cas’s shoulder blades, and Cas instinctively pulled up in his core.

“No, you’re fine, you just need to bring your head back in line with your body.” Dean pressed one finger to Cas’s chin, pushing it back just a fraction. “There, that’s better.”

Cas bristled slightly at Dean’s unwanted help, but pulled his head back. “You’d think I would have learned proper posture after eight years at the academy.”

Dean shook his head. “Your posture’s fine, really, you’re just letting the tension sit in your neck. Shake it out. Go on, shake it out.”

When Cas just stared at him blankly, Dean nudged him in the arm. Cas straightened up and shook his shoulders a bit, but Dean just rolled his eyes.

“No, go on, do it properly.”

Cas felt the colour rising in his cheeks, but let his upper body relax and flop around as he jumped from side to side.

“There, that’s better, right? Now try again.”

Cas took fourth position and breathed in, breathed out, and turned.

_One two fouette, one two fouette, one two three four five six seven-!_

“Yes!”

Dean’s look of triumph turned to confusion as Cas let out a muffled scream of rage and buried his head in his hands.

“Hey, hey! That was good, that was fine!”

“No! It’s supposed to be eight!”

“You’ll get to eight!” Dean made as though to place a placating hand on Cas’s arm, then seemed to think better of it. “But you just did seven pirouettes in a row and fucking _landed_ it! Be proud of yourself. That’s quite an achievement.”

At the look on Cas’s face, Dean stepped back, hands raised defensively.

“Or don’t, man. Whatever. I just came through cause I’m about to lock up and I wanted to know if you were going to be done any time soon.”

“I’m staying here until I get this right. Leave the key, I’ll lock up when I leave.”

“Sorry man, I need the key to open up in the morning, so unless you want to be here at six a.m…”

Cas privately thought that he would probably still be here anyway, but all he said was, “seven times isn’t good enough.”

Dean gave him an odd look. After a moment he shook his head.

“Whatever, dude. How much longer are you going to be?”

Cas squared his jaw and turned his head to find his spot on the wall again. “Two minutes.”

“Alright then.” Dean sat down with his back against the mirror and folded his hands together in his lap.

“Really?”

“What?”

“You’re going to watch me?”

Dean shrugged, half a smirk edging onto his face. “I want to see what you’ve got. Word has it you’re hot shit.”

Cas ducked his head, a deep blush rising through his cheeks and threatening to spill out of his eyes. This was the last thing he needed. He’d only just made second soloist; he hadn’t even had a performance yet, and already rumours were flying about how great he supposedly was. He had no idea who’d started it, but he was already dreading the upcoming season enough without everybody else’s unrealistic expectations.

“Hey.”

He turned to see Dean lean forward, worry on his face.

“I didn’t offend you, did I? I didn’t mean it like that.”

Cas shrugged one shoulder, trying to surreptitiously wipe under his eyes as he did so. “Don’t worry about it.”

Dean unfolded himself from the floor and arched back against the barre. “Can I see the whole dance?”

“Uh…” Cas blinked for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t have the whole dance yet.”

“Just what you’ve got so far, then.”

Cas was about to protest, but Dean had already crossed to the stereo and pressed play on the iPod docked there.

“Is this right?” he yelled over the music.

Unable to argue, Cas simply nodded and motioned for Dean to play it over from the start.

_3, 4, 5, and…_

_Sissone, pas de bourre, step step jete entrelace, step step grande jete, pas de bourre pirouette and finish. Sissone, pas de bourre, sissone glisse grande jete and one two fouette, one two fouette, one two three four five six seven FUCK and pas de chat and step step jete entrelace!_

Castiel meant to hold his final pose, but his knee twinged as he landed and he stumbled sideways. He doubled over, bracing his hands on his thighs and breathing hard. After a moment the music stopped and Cas cringed, waiting for Dean’s reaction: a sigh, criticism, disappointment. He’d screwed up the pirouette again and his final jete was sub-par at best. Worst of all, he was being completely unprofessional right now. Ballet was supposed to look effortless, and here he was doubled over and wheezing like a bellows.

He jumped as Dean’s hand landed on his shoulder.

“Castiel, hey. Are you okay, buddy?”

Cas straightened up.

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

Cas nodded, and Dean dropped his hand away from Cas’s shoulder.

“So that was solid.”

Cas squinted at him, trying to read the sarcasm in his face. There didn’t seem to be any.

“What do you mean, solid?”

“I mean solid as in good. Well executed.”

“I don’t understand.”

Dean raised one eyebrow.

“Cas. That was great.”

“No it wasn’t.”

Dean looked taken aback.

“Uh, dude. Take it from me. When I was a second soloist, I was doing a similar kind of thing, but I definitely wasn’t doing it half as well as that.”

“I messed up the pirouette.”

“I’m not surprised, having to go straight from a grande jete into two and a half bars of turns. That takes practise. Did you choose this?”

Castiel just looked at him.

“Right. Of course you didn’t. Who choreographed, Michaela or Naomi?”

“Naomi.”

“Figures. How long have you been working on it?”                       

“Just today.”

“Then cut yourself some slack. You’ve only just gotten the steps, and you’re having to push yourself a little bit to do something you haven’t done before. That’s always going to happen no matter what level you’re at. You can do this.”

In the hall outside, the clock struck eleven. Dean clapped a hand to Cas’s arm for a moment, then handed him his iPod and turned towards the door.

“Anyway dude, I really have to be getting home. Do you need a minute to get changed?”

“No.” Cas crossed to the stereo and picked up his bag from underneath it, yanking his track pants out as he did so. He pulled them on and slipped his feet out of his ballet shoes and into his trainers, then grabbed his hoodie from the piano stool and joined Dean in the entrance hall. Dean raised an eyebrow.

“Okay then.”

The night wind was cold as they stepped outside, and Cas regretted not bringing a coat in addition to his hoodie. He pulled the zip all the way up to his throat and waited while Dean locked the door, then followed him down the steps to the street.

Dean turned to him, shoulders hunched against the cold.

“You live far?”

Castiel shook his head. “Not really.”

“I can give you a lift, if you want.”

“No thank you.”

“Suit yourself.” Dean shoved his hands into his pockets and nodded in farewell. “See you around, Cas.”

“Goodnight.”

Cas walked to the corner and paused there to watch as Dean slid into his car and started the engine. Only after Dean had driven out of sight did he cross the street to the bus stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive the lack of accents over the French ballet terms in this chapter. They should all be there in later chapters.
> 
> Let me know what you think. It's been ages since I've formally danced, so my memory of terms and structures is a bit rusty. I'm going to try and update a couple of times a week, but I'm about to move countries so this coming fortnight might be patchy.


	2. Chapter 2

As Dean pulled up to the curb outside the studio the next morning, he saw young Castiel sitting on the steps. He was wearing the same red hoodie from last night, now with a dark blue scarf wrapped around his neck.

“No way,” Dean muttered to himself. He opened his car door and slid out, waving to Castiel across the roof as he opened the back door to grab his gym bag. “Morning, Cas. How long have you been waiting?”

“About ten minutes.” Castiel pulled his hood off as he stood up. “You said you were going to be here at six.”

Dean huffed a laugh. “Yeah, well, I didn’t expect anyone to be too impatient to get in before about seven, so I figured an extra fifteen minutes to actually have breakfast couldn’t hurt.”

He unlocked the door and ushered Castiel inside. In the entrance hall, he gestured down the corridor towards the little kitchen in the back. “Coffee?”

Castiel looked longingly towards the studio. “I should get started on warming up.”

“You work too hard.”

Castiel held his gaze for a moment too long. “I have a session with Naomi at nine. I still couldn’t get that pirouette by the time I went to bed.”

Dean frowned. “How late did you stay up?”

Castiel shrugged, averting his gaze. “Maybe another hour after I got home? I think I went to sleep at… uh… one?”

Dean almost choked on his next breath. “It took you an hour to get home?!”

“Well, yeah. I had to wait half an hour for the bus.”

“God almighty.” Dean rubbed a hand over his face. “You should have let me drive you. How are you functioning on that little sleep?”

Castiel bristled visibly. “You’re not doing much better.”

“I live a five minute drive from here, and I didn’t stay up until one in the morning practising pirouettes in my living room. I’ve got a solid six and a half hours’ sleep behind me.” He looked hard at Castiel for a minute, then shook his head. “I’m making you a cup of coffee.”

“Whatever.” Castiel disappeared into Studio One and snapped the door shut behind him.

 

-

 

Just after twelve-thirty, Dean poked his head into Studio One. Castiel was still in there, alone again; Naomi had been and gone, and he was still practising. He looked like he hadn’t even taken a break since he’d started six hours ago. Now he had his leg up on the barre and was practising releves on one foot, eyes closed, lips silently counting the beat. Dean watched for a moment, then slipped fully into the studio and eased the door closed behind him. He tiptoed across to the piano, and one glance into the mug resting on top confirmed his suspicions – Castiel hadn’t even paused to drink any more of his coffee than the sip he’d taken when Dean had handed it to him. Dean sighed and grabbed Cas’s iPod where it was feeding Tchaikovsky into the stereo, unplugging it without bothering to press pause. In the mirror, Dean saw Cas jump in surprise and hastily take his leg down off the barre.

“Take a break, dude.”

Castiel rolled his shoulders back. “Why?”

“Because you’re going to burn out before you ever get to perform at this rate.” Dean picked up Castiel’s hoodie and threw it at him. “Put your pants on, we’re going to lunch.”

 

-

 

Castiel narrowed his eyes at Dean’s choice of lunch venue.

“Pizza is incredibly unhealthy, Dean.”

“Oh, please.” Dean grabbed Cas by the elbow and tugged him into the pizza parlour. “You’ve spent the past six hours at the end of Naomi’s whip. I’m pretty sure you could use the carbs.”

Ten minutes later, Cas had to admit Dean was right. The first slice disappeared in seconds, and the second followed it without another thought. Dean grinned at him around a mouthful of pepperoni from across the table and pushed a third slice towards him.

“Go on. I have no doubt you’ll burn it off as soon as we get back to the studio anyway. Did you get the pirouettes yet?”

Cas felt his face fall, and he shook his head. “Not yet. Naomi wasn’t happy. I just can’t get around the eighth time.”

“Hey.” Dean leaned over the table and touched a hand to Cas’s wrist. “When we get back, why don’t I take a look and see if I can’t help?”

And that was how Castiel came to be standing in Studio One at two o’clock on a Thursday afternoon with Dean Winchester’s hands on his waist.

“Hey,” Dean had said, “if it works for the girls, it can work for us guys.”

Admittedly, the extra support did help. Cas was now getting around that eighth time, even if he couldn’t stay on balance the whole way round without Dean’s gentle guidance.

_One two fouetté, one two fouetté, one two three four five six seven eight-!_

With a gasp, Cas realised Dean’s hands had left him on pirouette number five. In his shock, he forgot to land and toppled over with an undignified squeal. He’d barely hit the ground before he was springing back up and grabbing Dean’s hands.

“Again!” he cried, “I had it that time, again!”

 _One two fouetté, one two fouetté, one two three_ – Dean’s hands disappeared – _four five six seven eight YES and pas de chat and step step jeté entrelacé!_

With a delighted whoop, Castiel took off around the studio in a string of exuberant piqués. Dean laughed, catching his enthusiasm and clapping as Cas came back around by the barre, finishing with a flourish.

“Bravo!”

“God, that felt good!”

“It looked good too.” Dean clasped him by the shoulders and ducked his head to look Cas straight in the eye. “I told you you could do it.”

Cas sagged back against the barre in relief. Sure, he’d had Dean holding him upright for the first half of it, but the fact that he’d actually managed to execute that many spins at once, partner or no, was the most he’d accomplished in weeks.

“Hey.” Cas looked up to find Dean staring at him intently. “Do you have any more sessions this afternoon?”

Cas shook his head. “I was supposed to be practising my pas de deux with Anna at three, but she’s got the flu.”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’ve been going for eight hours and I think that’s my lot.” Dean took half a step back and shrugged. “I reckon we should call it. Michaela put me through the wringer this morning, you’ve been destroying yourself for Naomi, we both need a break and a nap. I’m taking you home.”

Cas readied himself to argue, but the words he was about to throw back somehow came out as a yawn instead. At Dean’s raised eyebrow, he sighed and nodded. “Let me just get my stuff.”

“Me too. I’ll see you out front in five minutes.”


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel was still stifling yawns as they got into the car, and Dean was struggling to keep a grin off his face. The kid was so worn out, it was a wonder he’d managed to stay upright at all today, let alone spin on his toes.

“I live over by 39th.”

“Okay.” Dean had no intention of driving that far, and Castiel seemed to realise that as they pulled up outside Dean’s apartment two minutes later.

“This is… your place?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” Castiel leaned forward to peer up at the building. “When you said you were taking me home I thought you meant my home.”

“Nah.”

Cas climbed out of the car and stood waiting while Dean locked the doors.

“Why are we at yours?”

“Because.” Dean trotted up the steps of the apartment building and hauled the huge front door open. “If I let you go home, I’m fairly certain you’ll go right back to practising. Burning the candle at this many ends is not smart.”

They took the elevator up to the third floor, where Dean then led the way up a small staircase. At the top was a short hall with just one door leading off each side.

“You live in the penthouse?”

Dean laughed. “If you can call it that. It’s really just a studio apartment.”

As Dean unlocked the door, Cas sidled up to his elbow. “Who lives through the other side?”

“Hm? Oh.” Belatedly, Dean tuned in to the sound of Miles Davis playing in the opposite apartment. “This old dude. He’s alright. I haven’t talked to him all that much, but he seems kinda cool.”

Cas nodded and followed him inside.

“Wow.”

“What?”

“It’s huge.”

Dean cut a glance at Castiel. “How small is your apartment, dude?”

Castiel shrugged. “Big enough for me.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean shrugged off his jacket and slung it over the back of the closer of the two dining chairs. “I wanted space to move. You spend enough time in the studio, anything much smaller feels oppressive.”

“I suppose.”

“So this is about the same size as Studio Three. A fraction smaller once you put furniture into it. It’s big enough for my purposes.” Dean saw Castiel nod out the corner of his eye as he turned to the fridge. “Anyway, dude, take a seat. You want a beer?”

“Uh…” the bed creaked as Cas perched on the edge of it. “No thanks.”

“Soda, then? Or orange juice?”

“Orange juice sounds good.”

Dean opened the fridge and slid a bottle of beer from the bottom shelf. As he went to grab the juice carton, he realised it wasn’t in its usual spot. Turning around, he saw it sitting on the bench, where he’d left it after finishing it this morning.

“Ah, crap,” he muttered under his breath. “Hey, Cas, I just gotta run downstairs for a sec. Will you be alright here for a minute?”

“Sure.”

Dean flashed Cas a grin and left, taking the empty carton with him to recycle on the way down.

One of the convenient things about living pretty much right on top of a corner store, Dean had found, was that you never truly ran out of things. He had run downstairs in the middle of cooking dinner more times than he could count, when he realised one of his eggs was bad or he didn’t have _quite_ enough chilli sauce. Over the couple of years he’d been living here, he’d gotten quite quick at it, so it couldn’t have been more than five minutes before he was paying the cashier and bolting back up the stairs. That said, it wasn’t really a surprise when he opened the door and found Cas curled up in a tidy ball, fast asleep.

Dean chuckled, shutting the door as quietly as he could and toeing off his shoes. He grabbed a glass from the kitchen cupboard and filled it with juice, then tiptoed across to the bed and set the glass down on the side table nearest Cas.

“Freakin’ adorable,” Dean muttered under his breath. Cas’s face had relaxed in sleep, the lines of frustration eased out of his forehead and his lips slightly parted, huffing out a small breath every few seconds. As Dean watched, Cas frowned, then twitched; once, twice. Dean smiled and turned away from the bed, picking up the copy of _Cat’s Cradle_ on the bedside table and taking it to the couch. He thumbed through to where he’d left off last and began to read.

-

Castiel opened his eyes into unexpected darkness. He blinked, frowning as he tried to work out where he was. There was a patch of drool on his knee where his mouth had been pressed, and he was just this side of too cold. As the fog of sleep cleared from his eyes he saw a warm light illuminating the far corner of-

Dean’s apartment! That’s where he was. When had he fallen asleep? Castiel frowned harder, still not uncurling from his tight ball until he could work out what was going on. Dean had said something about running downstairs, Cas had laid down on the bed, and- crap. He’d fallen straight asleep.

Cas sighed, finally rolling upright and stretching his legs down off the bed. His thigh muscles protested as he wobbled to his feet, and he made a mental note to take a heat pack to bed tonight. As he steadied himself with a hand on the bedside table, he saw a glass of orange juice sitting there. Castiel was fairly sure it hadn’t been there when he’d fallen asleep, and it showed no signs of having been drunk from, so he assumed it was for him. Had Dean put it there? If so, why hadn’t he woken Cas up?

“Dean?”

Dean did not answer, but as Cas crossed over to the standing lamp he saw him sitting cross-legged in an armchair facing the wall, a book in his lap and a pair of chunky headphones on his ears. He didn’t look up until Cas leant against the arm of his chair, at which point he jumped and tugged the headphones down to rest around his neck.

“Cas, hey! You’re awake!”

“Yeah.” Cas scrubbed a hand against the side of his face, certain he could still feel dried drool there. “What time is it?”

Dean checked the clock on his iPod, pausing his music as he did so. “Almost nine.”

“Nine?! Why didn’t you wake me?”

Dean raised one eyebrow. “Dude, if you were tired enough to sleep for six hours solid, I’m pretty sure you needed every minute of it.”

Cas had to admit, now he was properly awake, that he did feel much better than he had all day. The high-pitched buzzing was gone from behind his eyes, and things seemed the right size again. All week he’d been fighting the sense that everything was too small and too far away. Now the world had squared up again and brought itself back within reach.

“Do you feel better now?” Dean continued, as if reading Castiel’s mind. “You look better. There’s more colour in your face.”

Cas nodded.

“Good.” Dean snapped his book shut and unfolded himself from the armchair. “Are you hungry? I’m hungry.”

Castiel blinked at the change in pace. “I- not really.”

Dean narrowed his eyes at him. “Liar. You’re just worried I’m gonna make you eat pizza again. Come on. There’s a deli down the road that stays open late and does really good vegetable kebabs.”

Cas hurried after him as he grabbed his leather jacket, swung it over his shoulder, and led the way out of the apartment. He felt like he couldn’t quite keep up with Dean. It all felt a shade too intimate, the pizza and orange juice and naps on Dean’s bed, especially for people who had known each other less than twenty-four hours. Castiel wasn’t used to this sort of social ease, and he had to know:

“Why are you doing this?”

The words stopped Dean in his tracks halfway down the hall. He turned, a look of genuine confusion on his face.

“Doing what?”

Cas almost shrugged, but kept his resolve. “Coaching me. Feeding me. Letting me sleep on your bed when you barely even know me. Why are you even talking to me? I’m a junior soloist who can’t keep on balance for a stupid pirouette. Why are you doing this?”

Dean was silent for a long minute, his eyes flicking back and forth across Cas’s face as if reading his insecurities off one by one. Then, finally, he took a step toward him, half a smirk sliding onto his face.

“Because I walked into Studio One last night and I saw a stupid young kid pushing himself too hard too fast, and I thought, ‘Dean, this boy is heading for a burnout, and if he works himself to death before opening night then the whole season will have to be cancelled and no-one will get to see the pas de deux that you and Lisa have worked so hard on, and if that happens then Lisa might finally snap and murder the whole company, and that would be bad.’ And I figured it was my responsibility to save the lives of my friends and colleagues, so I intervened. Is that a good enough reason?”

Cas blinked at him for a second, then slowly nodded.

“Good. Come on, then.” Dean swung his jacket back over his shoulder and sauntered off towards the stairs, whistling.

Dean was so unlike everyone else at work, Castiel thought. Most of the other dancers took themselves and their art so seriously, and Castiel had taken it as a given that that was how the business worked. But here was Dean, and he seemed so utterly unconcerned with every ounce of professionalism that Castiel had spent the past ten years acquiring. The man ate pizza and drank beer. He worked his own hours and took off whenever he wanted. And yet, for all the discipline he seemed to lack, he was one of the best dancers Castiel had ever seen, let alone performed with. Castiel was intrigued, and as he scurried down the hall after Dean he found himself hoping, despite his better judgement, that he might become further absorbed into Dean’s world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back in New Zealand now and mostly settled in, so the updates should start coming fairly regularly now! I've got about the next two chapters planned out, and we'll see where it goes from there. It feels like it's gonna be an interesting story. I'm excited.


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